


Brain Pain

by JCRGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCRGirl/pseuds/JCRGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes home to find Sam sick. He helps him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brain Pain

Dean juggled the bags of take-out and finally fit the key to the lock, pushing open the flimsy aluminum front door with his hip. They were in some one cow town close to the Georgia/Florida line and the selection of rentals had been slim. Dad was able to find them this cubic zirconia in the rough -  a singlewide mobile home built sometime in the early 1970s by a manufacturer Dean was pretty sure was no longer in business – secluded enough to allow training sessions and target practice without drawing the attention of nosy neighbors. It had two bedrooms, two baths and smelled strongly of mold and decay, but they’d stayed in worse and were masters of making the best out of anything. It was their 700 square foot slice of heaven for the next few months. Kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot, Dean looked around and his stomach clenched. 

Something wasn’t right.

It was dark, but that wasn’t really a cause for worry. Every once in a while, not often but it happened, Dad was so focused on his work that he forgot to pay the electric bill, reducing the boys to roughing it until he returned.  So, it wasn’t the absence of light that had Dean’s Spidey-sense tingling, but the absence of Sam. Every night Dean came home from work to the same sight, his little brother hunched over the kitchen table finishing his homework, but tonight Sam was nowhere to be found. 

“Sam,” he called, making his way through the living room to the kitchen.  No answer. Setting the bags on the kitchen table, Dean started down the small hallway that led to their bedroom and bathroom. 

“Sam?” 

Passing the bathroom, a soft sound drifted through the closed door. Dean rapped his knuckles lightly on the laminate - “Sam? You in there?” – and received a small, pained response. The door was unlocked and Dean opened it cautiously not sure what to expect. Sam was lying on the floor in the fetal position with his head pillowed on one of their threadbare towels. Another towel was draped over his head and the smell of vomit lingered in the air. 

“Sammy!” Dean’s kneeled at his side, voice raised, thick with anxiety and concern, at the sight of his brother curled up on the bathroom floor. Sam whimpered and his hand flew up to cover his ear.

_A migraine._

Sam’d been fortunate. It’d been almost a year since the last one, but, from the looks of it, this one wanted to make up for the reprieve.

Dean trailed the tips of his fingers down Sam’s forearm experimentally and sighed in relief when he only flinched slightly. Sam’s headaches made him over sensitive to touch, sometimes turning the smallest contact into agony. Thankfully, this one didn’t seem to be one of those. He gently pulled Sam’s hand away from this head and folded the towel back to expose Sam’s ear. 

“Sammy,” he whispered.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice small and confused.

Dean’d expected that. Sam once told him during the ‘bad ones’ he often felt like he couldn’t think around the pain. Like the migraine created mud in his brain that his sluggish thoughts had to work through to make connections. 

 “How bad?”

“Seven,” Sam replied weakly.  In and out of hospitals as much as they were, the Winchesters had come to classify the severity of any type of pain by the hospital’s 1 to 10 standard. 

“How long?”

There was a long pause before finally, “Noon.” 

“You take anything?”

“Yeah,” he answered belatedly, mind working hard for an answer.

“When?”

Sam brought his hands to his head, cupping his skull on both sides. Fingers splayed wide and tense, it almost looked like Sam was trying to push the pain out. 

“Sam?”

“Final bell. Zero Tolerance.” 

Fucking school. Carter High strictly enforced their zero tolerance policy on drugs which they had expanded to include over the counter headache remedies. Last week, Judy Miller was suspended for taking Advil between classes.  If Sam took something after school ended that also meant he threw it up when he got home.

_Perfect._

“Sammy? Bathroom floor isn’t all that comfortable. We need to get you in the bedroom so you can relax. Okay?” Dean looked around. The light was still on in the hallway, but it couldn’t be avoided.  He needed it to navigate Sam to bed without one or both of them ending up back on the floor. He craned his neck to look in the bedroom, relieved to see that Sam neglected to open the curtains before leaving for school.

He gently pushed on Sam’s shoulder, forcing his rigid body over on his back. Dean slid his hands under Sam’s armpits, worming their way up until one rested between his shoulder blades and the other cradled the back of his neck, fingers bracing the base of his skull. 

“Up we go. Nice and easy.” Dean pulled him into a sitting position, Sam was as limp as a ragdoll in his arms. The towel slipped from Sam’s face and he whimpered at the light from the hallway even through closed eyelids. Gently, Dean guided his head to the crook of his neck and allowed Sam to bury his face into the space, using Dean’s body as a blind. Breaths ghosted across Dean’s collarbone in rapid, shallow pants as Sam tried to master, what Dean knew from past episodes, was pain and nausea.  The hand on Sam’s back rubbed soothing circles and Dean waited for Sam’s breathing to regulate before he lifted them both to their feet. Sam cried out softly at the manhandling and took two steps before his knees buckled.

_Seven, my ass._

Dean knew his little brother’s headaches. He’d been nursing Sam through them for years and he knew without a doubt that he’d only ever seen Sam this bad off once before. The last time it took Sam two days to become a functioning person again. 

“Come on, Sasquatch. You gotta help me.” Sam’s hands fisted in the fabric of his jacket as he virtually climbed the front of Dean, wobbly legs straightening and holding. They shuffle-stutter stepped the five feet from the bathroom to the double bed they currently shared. Dean batted away Sam’s weak attempts to undress, unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping until Sam was down to threadbare boxer-briefs that barely contained his modesty and a frayed undershirt. Sam kept his eyes firmly closed, letting Dean move and manipulate him into bed without a token protest. This fact, more than anything else, was what disturbed Dean the most.

Sam rolled to his side and curled up in a ball, legs drawing up to his chest and one arm across his eyes. A picture of misery against the dingy white sheets. Dean moved quickly, going back to the kitchen to put away the chicken wings and beer he’d brought home for dinner and to gather some headache medicine and a glass of water. Heading to the bedroom, he detoured through the bathroom and wet a washcloth with hot water. It helped about half the time and right now Dean was willing to take a 50% success rate over nothing. 

His boot caught on the shag carpet and he stumbled into the near darkness of their bedroom. Setting the washcloth on the nightstand, he turned his attention to the impossibly small ball of pain that was his brother. 

“Sam? Sam.” Dean gently brushed his fingers down Sam’s forearm. Dull, half-lidded hazel eyes, set underneath scrunched eyebrows, peeked around the flesh barrier. 

“Dean?”

 “Yeah, Sammy. Come on. I’ve got you some medicine. You need to sit up and take it.” Dean slid an arm under Sam’s shoulders and lifted his torso up so he could swallow the pills. Choking slightly, Sam pushed the glass away feebly when Dean offered him more water.

“That’s good, Sam. Just lay back now and rest. It’s okay. It’ll be over soon.” Dean lowered Sam back to the bed and situated the washcloth over his eyes.  He leaned over, fingers snatching the edge of the small garbage can next to the nightstand and dragging it closer to the edge of the bed in case Sam was sick again. Sighing softly, Dean started to get up when long, cold fingers wrapped lightly around his wrist.

“Okay, Sammy. Give me a second.” He carefully uncurled Sam’s fingers and stripped down. He turned off the hall light, bathing the house in the muted gray of twilight. Walking around the bed, he slowly lowered himself down on what was normally his brother’s side to keep from jostling Sam too much. Dean stretched out on his back, close enough that Sam could feel his presence and heat yet not touching his tactile sensitive skin. 

Sam’s breathing was harsh and uneven, pained sighs escaping unwittingly, and Dean listened in impotent silence. He hated this. He would rather Sam had a large, bleeding gash, something visual, than be lost in his pain filled mind. At least with wounds, there was a set way of dealing with them, but these headaches were nebulous, what worked one time didn’t always work the next. 

Time ticked by – seconds into minutes into hours.  Dean noticed that Sam gradually unfurled his long body, his rigid muscles relaxed and his breathing deepened and slowed. It appeared the worst was over.  

Dean sent up a silent thank you though he wasn’t sure to whom and huffed out a relieved sigh. He pushed the small button on the side of his flea market Timex and the display glowed blue in the dark room. It was close to 10pm, early by Winchester standards, but his body was exhausted from worry and tension. He placed a hand on Sam’s arm, glad when Sam didn’t so much as twitch, and closed his eyes. 

 

 

 

Dean was having the weirdest dream. First, it kept alternating between black and white and color. He and Sam were hunting all sorts of craziness: possessed animals – talking horses and strangely intelligent dolphins and collies –, stereotypical witches on broomsticks wearing conical hats and a house full of monsters that had a pet dragon under the stairs. Every time they got close to killing anything, they’d get waylaid by some slapstick stupidity. Right now they were in a grayscale world hiding in the basement turned laboratory of the monster’s house waiting for the Frankenstein thing to leave.

“Sam? How the hell do we kill Frankenstein? I must have missed that day in Dad’s training.”

His brother gave him an amused smile and stepped closer. His eyes twinkled with a mischievous light and a large hand reached up to cup the back of Dean’s head. “Who cares, Dean? It’ll all be over in thirty minutes anyway.”

Sam pressed their lips together and Dean figured if Sam wasn’t worried then neither was he. He threaded his fingers in soft chestnut hair and tilted Sam’s head to the angle he wanted so he could deepen the kiss. Sam gave a small moan when their tongues met that sounded Technicolor in their two-tone surroundings. Dean blinked his eyes open wanting to see the expression on Sam’s face that went with that vivid noise. 

Everything was black. He could feel Sam kissing him, feel Sam’s body under his hands, but he couldn’t see anything. His mind worked furiously while his lips continued to move against Sam’s, hoping to work out the problem before his brother became aware. Sam shifted on the bed causing a cold, wet lump to fall on Dean’s shoulder and begin soaking into the material of his undershirt. It was then that Dean realized they were lying down and the pieces began to fall into place.

It was a dream. No more freaking Nick at Nite marathons.

 He reached up and removed the washcloth, throwing it in the direction of the bathroom. His hands cradled Sam’s face and he pulled back from the kiss, resting their foreheads together.

“Feeling better?”

“Fuck, yes. Still a little weak but a thousand times better than before.” 

Dean ran his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, tracing his features by memory, pad skirting the hollowness under his eye the migraine left behind. “You should probably eat something. I think we have some fresh strawberries in the fridge and maybe some frozen blackberries in the freezer. You want me to get you some?” Fruit was always Sam food of choice after an episode, one of the reasons Dean always kept frozen on hand.

“Mmm,” Sam hummed, pulling Dean to him for another kiss. “Later. Busy now.”

Dean broke the connection again. “Sam, you sure you’re up for this? Yesterday was pretty bad.” Startled, he sucked his stomach in when warm fingers ran over the skin just above his elastic band. A twist of a wrist and Sam’s hand slipped under the worn cotton to encircle the hardness below.

“Mmhmm. I read somewhere that sex is supposed to help with headaches. Endorphin release or something.” Sam nudged Dean’s jaw up with his nose, giving him more room to explore the hot spots on Dean’s neck.

Dean gasped at the feel of Sam’s mouth on his throat and his hand lazily pumping him up and down. The dark in the room was absolute, miles from any road with streetlights and a new moon overhead. He couldn’t see Sam or what was coming next and it heightened the experience, his nerves alight with anticipation. He felt Sam slide lower on his body, lips brushing feather-lite over his abdomen and making a circuitous trail down. His hips bucked up when hot followed by cold breaths teased across the head. He heard Sam lick his lips, moistening them for Dean-pleasuring purposes. Quickly, he grabbed his brother by the upper arms and pulled him up before that sinful mouth could blank his mind out.

“You need the endorphin release.”  Dean rolled over Sam’s body, hand blindly searching for the handle on the nightstand. Grunting at the stretch and uncomfortable bony appendages jabbing him in tender places, his hand curled around the bottle of lube. The click of the cap initiated a Pavlovian response in the younger man and Dean felt Sam’s legs automatically part to give him room. Coating his fingers and rubbing them together to warm the liquid, Dean hovered above Sam’s body held up by his non-lubed hand next to Sam’s head. He took his mouth, tongue delving deep and possessive as one finger circled the furled entrance below. Sam was breathing hard and shaking beneath him in arousal and expectation.

Moving his mouth to bite at the corded muscles in his neck, Dean sunk the teasing digit into the warm silkiness of his brother. Using lips and teeth to torment Sam’s upper body, Dean’s fingers, steadily increasing in number, stoked the fire in the lower portion. 

“Dean, please. God. Please. Now.” A shiver shot down Dean’s spine at his little brother’s pleading tone. His neglected member, already rock hard, throbbed, demanding he listen to the younger man’s request.

Shifting to his knees, Dean pulled free of Sam’s enticing heat and ran his slickened fingers over his tender flesh. He lifted Sam’s legs to his shoulders and lined up, waiting for Sam to do his part of their practiced dance and force his sexually revved muscles to go lax. He pushed forward, sheathing in one steady thrust. Sam’s back arched, a guttural groan echoing in the darkness. Hands flailed blindly seeking Dean’s arms, fingers gripping tight upon discovery. 

“Dean,” Sam panted, “move, dammit.”

Always happy to oblige, Dean pulled out and began a rhythm he knew they both liked. Sam writhed below him, legs slipping from broad shoulders to wrap around a trim waist. Quads and hamstrings contracted on his next drive in, forcing him further into Sam’s welcoming body. 

“God, Sam. Yeah.”

“Harder. Please, Dean, harder.”

 Dean fell forward on his hands, thankfully missing Sam, and cursed the blackness around them. He desperately wanted to see his Sammy falling apart as he quickened and deepened his movements. He gritted his teeth against the impending orgasm pooling low in his belly and took Sam in his hand, mimicking the pace of his thrusts. 

“Dean. I’m-,” Warmth flooded over Dean’s fist and Sam internally clenched down on Dean. The viselike grip pulled Dean’s orgasm from him. His trembling arms gave out and he managed to fall to the side. Running fingers up Sam’s chest to his jaw, Dean turned his face toward him and kissed Sam’s lips, licking away the sweat from the upper.  He reluctantly peeled away from the warm sated body and staggered to the bathroom to wet another washcloth, cursing loudly when he stepped on the cold one from earlier. He cleaned them, throwing the washcloth toward its partner on the floor, and settled down into the mattress.

“Time ‘sit anyway,” Sam sleepily murmured, sliding over to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.

The neon display emanated the only point of light in the room. “Right at 3:30. You feeling okay? Do I need to get you more pain relievers?”

“Huh-uh. I’m good.” Sam rubbed his face against Dean’s chest. “Told you sex was supposed to help.”

“Wow. So my dick’s better than medicine.” Dean smirked, arm wrapping around Sam’s shoulders and pulling him tight.

“Mmhmm,” Sam slurred, sleep fastly approaching. “Rapid release has nuttin’ on you.” Sam voice trailed off on a soft snore.

Dean chuckled in the dark. Lying there, feeling his own tiredness tug at him, Sam’s last words drifted through his mind. “Hey,” he squawked, indignantly. He felt Sam’s smug smile spread against his chest.

 


End file.
